


Cooking for Critics

by SarahLizH



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anxiety, Betrayal, Chef!Dean, Cooking, Cooking fic, Emotional Healing, Family, Food Critic, Guilt, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Love, M/M, bisexual!dean, chef, critic!cas, family fic, feelings of worthlessness, foodcritic!castiel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-02
Updated: 2016-02-02
Packaged: 2018-04-18 15:35:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4711178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SarahLizH/pseuds/SarahLizH
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester is an amazing chef running his own restaurant, "Impala" in Kansas City, Kansas. When esteemed food critic J.T. Novak leaves a review that shocks everyone and shakes Dean to his core, will he be able to pick up the pieces? And can the mysterious stranger with deep blue eyes, permanent sex hair and an ass that just doesn't quit help him deal with the devastating blow?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Dean Winchester slumped down into the nearest seat. Well, more accurately, his legs gave out underneath him and if not for his very helpful sou chef, Benny, he would have collapsed directly onto the floor. A chair was slid behind him just in time.

His breathing became a tad pitched and erratic as he ran fingers through his hair in an attempt to ground himself. Someone, Dean wasn't sure who, handed him a bottle of Voss from the fridge, which he grabbed and started chugging absent-mindedly. When he was halfway done with it, he wiped his mouth and attempted to focus. He forced himself to look up at his increasingly worried kitchen staff who’d witnessed his mini panic attack. Although it was troubling to see their usually grounded boss act this way, his episode wasn't the only thing causing the murmurs of concern. J.T. Novak, Kansas City’s most esteemed food critic was going to review his restaurant tomorrow night. They’d only just gotten the call a few minutes ago. Lisa, who was probably one of the perkiest hostesses on God’s green Earth, had come into Dean’s office in the back of the kitchen without her constant smile. That alone sent alarm bells blaring in his head. When she motioned for him to pick up line 1, her face was the most serious he’d ever seen it. Eight minutes later, here they were.

Jo, who’d abandoned her appetizer station, rubbed his back soothingly. Dean couldn’t see it, but she was wearing her ever present smirk. They’d known each other since they were kids and although she was aware of the gravity of the situation, it still tickled her to see him in knots. It was that attitude, she knew, that could lose her her apprenticeship if she wasn't careful. Ash, Jo’s cousin, had grabbed one of the menus from Lisa and began to fan a small breeze towards Dean’s paling face.

This was the biggest thing to happen to the place since their grand opening a year ago. He couldn’t do this. He was only one man. Sure, he had a kickass staff on his side but ultimately, he created the menu and executed the majority of the meals. It was his name that could be potentially smeared all over The KC Star. His food. His restaurant. Well, technically Sammy was still part owner. They had been partners originally and it had worked harmoniously for a couple months. Dean, as head chef, took care of the back of the house and Sam, the people person, took care of the front. They had a good thing going and Dean had no issue staying in his quarters as Sam was less likely to stab someone who questioned Dean’s understanding of the words “medium rare.” But it only lasted for so long.

Owning a restaurant was never Sam’s dream and Dean couldn’t have been prouder when his baby brother had gotten a phone call from that prestigious law firm he wouldn’t shut up about. His hard work at Stanford had paid off after only a couple years of floundering and endless internships. Most of the firms he’d approached had been in KC. He’d moved back, with Jess at his side, only six months after graduating. The ring on her finger was slight and nothing to brag about but that didn’t stop her. She loved it because Sam had given it to her and she was always quick to kiss him quiet when he promised to get her a nicer one upon receiving a hefty salary. Dean had been ecstatic for them. One, he loved Jess and God knows she was way out of Sammy’s league. Two, Sam had finally come back home, where he was meant to be. His leaving the restaurant though had put a slight strain on their relationship. On paper, Sam still owned part of Impala but his active role in the business had ceased. It took Dean awhile to sort out his feelings but he knew his brother taking that big time job was for the best.

Garth, who they’d hired on as their accountant, had moved up to take on most of Sammy’s duties. Quirky as he was, Dean liked him and he was great with the customers. He was also very adept at calming Dean when his temper flared. Normally, when a dish was sent back to the kitchen, Benny would have to restrain him from storming into the dining room. Nowadays Garth was able to intercept him. His anger and defensiveness towards his food was probably the only kind of emotional Dean ever got. Until now. Right now, he could feel the sweat dribble down his temple and it wasn't just the heat pouring from the stove. The fear and adrenaline coursing through his veins threatened to liquify him into a helpless puddle.

The most famous critic in the city was going to judge Impala and then, his word as gospel, tell everyone that had anything to do with the food scene whether Dean was worth a damn. The fresh insecurity and worthlessness crept it’s way into his thoughts. _No_ , Dean thought. _This is different. It’s not the same. I am not going to let anyone down this time. Not again._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean has a rough start to his morning.

The following morning found Dean sprawled out facedown on his couch soaked in whiskey; one leg on the armrest, the other hanging over onto the floor. He jerked awake at the sound of his alarm and nearly smashed his phone with his fist instead of grabbing it. Rather than test it’s durability, he groaned and cracked an eye open to look at the time. 8:00. He had two hours to shower, get his shit together, and drive over to the restaurant.

The second groan that followed that realization was so full of despair it drew Sam out of his and Jess’ room. They were waiting until after the wedding to move into their own place. Sam may have gotten in at the firm but he still had quite the ladder to climb and they were going to save up to the last moment. Dean raised his head slightly at the sound of Sam’s moose-like feet padding their way into the living room. His brother was wearing plaid flannel pajamas bottoms, appropriate for the November chill, and a grey henley. His ridiculous hair was in all kinds of disarray. He still refused to cut it, even after Dean and Jess had chased him around the kitchen with a pair of safety scissors. They’d all laughed so hard they thought their sides would split open. Looking up at his little bro now, Dean could see, there was no laughter in his face. Just a tired sort of amusement.

“Dean,” Sam began, his voice soft yet exasperated, “ we've talked about this. You can’t binge drink every time someone turns their nose up at your advances. I keep telling you you’re not as irresistible as you think you are.” Their was a slight, lilt in his voice that let Dean know that he was only half kidding. Part of him was actually worried. He could tell this time was different. The stupor that the chef had drunk himself into the night before had outdone all the times he'd been turned down. After he’d spent hours writing and re-writing the menu for Novak’s arrival, he’d grabbed a bottle of Jim Bean, flipped the bird at the clock telling him it was 1 am, and didn’t look back.

At the moment he was struggling to sit up, his joints creaking and popping as he moved. Dean managed to get himself into a proper sitting position for all of half a second before he dropped his head in his hands. The last of the alcohol was still lacing his brain with a steady bass that made it ache and his stomach churn. The look on his face must have alerted Sam that shit was about to go down cause suddenly the giant man standing next to him was rushing to side. He grabbed him and helped him get down the hallway and into the bathroom. As soon as his face was near the toilet, Dean was vomiting the previous night’s worries into the bowl. Sam made a noise of sympathetic disgust as he smoothed the palm of his hand over Dean’s shoulders. After his reenactment of The Exorcist, he was able to lean back against the tub with Sam’s help. The quiet pitter patter of much more petite feet than both of them had announced someone else’s presence.

“Sam?” Jess poked her head into the doorframe, her sun-kissed curls only slightly mussed as they pooled around her face. When she saw the two brothers, one coughing through the grit in his throat and the other handing him a bunch of toilet paper to wipe his mouth, her brow furrowed in concern. She’d seen her brother-in-law-to-be hung over before, but this was something else. She instantly went into nurse mode.

“Has he thrown up everything?” She fired at Sam. He nodded at her quickly. She sighed, removing the hair tie from her wrist and pulling her locks up into a ponytail. “Okay, first things first, he needs to drink some water to prevent dehydration. Then a shower, coffee, and aspirin. You help him brush his teeth and I’ll go start the brew. If he can’t handle taking a shower by himself, you’ll need to stay and make sure he doesn't fall. I’ll be back in a minute.” With that, she gave a curt nod and about-faced her way out of the bathroom. Immediately Sam reached up to run the sink tap before leaning down to pick up his big brother. Dean groaned and mumbled something along the lines of “take care of my damn self” which only made Sam huff in exasperation.

Fifteen minutes later, Dean had successfully brushed his teeth, downed an entire bottle of water that Jess had brought him, and taken a shower with minimal help from Sam. The stubborn moose still insisted on leaving the bathroom door cracked in case he slipped in the tub. All in all, he felt like shit, but that wasn't anything new. So as far as Dean was concerned, he could make it in to work. He just had to convince Sam and Jess. Once he’d toweled off and changed into his work clothes, puffy chef pants and all, he shuffled his way into the kitchen where a mug of black coffee and a couple tablets of aspirin were waiting on the counter. The couple sitting at the table were eyeing him carefully while munching on their respective bowls of cereal. Dean wrinkled his nose in disgust. Had it been any other day, he would have cooked breakfast for all of them.

Ignoring their wary looks, Dean choked down the medicine, grabbed the mug, and headed over to the living room. He remembered working on the menu there and he wanted to quadruple check its excellence. Sure enough, the coffee table was littered with several crumpled pieces of paper with only a few that made the mark. Grabbing them up, he sat down on the couch and read over every item, relaying the ingredients to himself in his head. He had to make absolute sure that every single thing coming out of his kitchen was worthy of being served to J.T. Novak.

After making a few marks here and there and throwing out only a few appetizers, he nodded slightly at the papers in his hands. Now he just had to get them to his office, print them up real nice, and have Lisa place them in their nice leather bound folders.

Looking around the room he spotted his work satchel sitting on the rocking chair. He frowned slightly when he remembered that Sam and Jess were taking the thing with them when they moved out. The chair had been their mother’s, made for her by their dad when she was still pregnant with Dean. Although John Winchester had mostly worked as a mechanic, he’d still been a hell of a carpenter on the side. Setting down his coffee, he reached over for the bag and opened it. He gave the papers in his hands one last once over before placing them inside and closing the flap. Dean slung the strap over one shoulder and stood up. He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palms and walked back to the kitchen. Jess was still sitting down, reading the paper while Sam was finishing up washing their dishes in the sink.

Dean cleared his throat slightly to get their attention. Jess glanced up from her issue of The Star and Sam stopped drying the bowl in his hand. Shifting uncomfortably, he opened his mouth then closed it, then opened it again. His hands floundered aimlessly as his side. Sighing he tried again. “Look guys,” he began, “I really appreciate the help this morning.” The words progressed slowly as he tried, with great difficulty, to form them. “Jess,” he turned to the small woman, “thanks for, ya know, thinking on your feet and uhh…just….uh…” The words trailed off and he rubbed the back of his neck as he searched for what he was trying to say.

A chair scraped against the kitchen tiles as Jess stood up and walked over to him. Placing a hand on his shoulder she squeezed so he’d look up at her. “Hey,” she said softly, “I couldn't have left you like that. What kind of sister-in-law would I be if I did?” He smiled softly down at her and she wrapped him up in a quick hug before gently nudging him towards Sam. “Now, since we’re still not family yet, I don’t really have full rights to the story this time. However, you do owe my fiance an explanation. So I’m just going to make myself scarce while you two hash this out.” Dean felt his stomach drop and all the affection he had for Jess was tested in that moment as she went to kiss Sam on the cheek before leaving the room.

_And then there were two_ , he thought. _Well, might as well get this over with_. Strapping on his usual bravado, Dean swaggered his way over to the kitchen table and snagged up the newspaper that had been left there. He made a big show of plopping himself down, opening the paper up to a random section and pretending to intently read the Life  & Style section. That lasted for about five seconds before he felt the thing ripped from his hands. Dean did his best to hide his cringe. He looked up to find Sam’s bitchface, letting him know he wasn't about to get out of explaining why he’d gotten far beyond trashed the night before.

“Dean,” Sam spoke softly but firmly. This was happening, whether he wanted it to or not. “What the hell happened yesterday?” The silence following that question hung heavy between them. Dean stared at the daisies that decorated the vase in the middle of the table. He’d bitched that they were “girly-ing up the place” when Jess had first put them there. Secretly, he thought they added a nice, homey touch that he’d miss.“Dean!”

The elder Winchester met the eyes of his brother, making Sam’s hardened face relax. The shame and anxiety he saw in Dean at that moment trumped his brief flare of anger. Sighing, he pushed his now groomed hair back and took his place across from Dean. Sam knew his perpetually macho brother wasn’t the most touchy feely kind of guy when it came to talking about his feelings. The only man he’d find himself spilling his guts to (literally and figuratively) was named either Jim, Jack, or Jose. Despite this fact, the lawyer reached his hand across the small space to grasp Dean’s callused one. “Please, Dean,” he whispered. Suddenly he was eight years old again. Those sad, hazel eyes would always look up into green ones, asking when daddy was coming home. _Soon, Sammy. Soon_ , was always the reply he’d receive. Eventually he’d stopped asking because Dean was the only father he’d ever needed. “Please. It hasn't been that bad since Dad…” he stopped. They didn’t talk about that. _Never_ talked about that. Now it appeared they might have to.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A small glimpse into the brothers' past.

Dean had never forgiven himself for it, even though it hadn’t been his fault. He’d only been 22 at the time. Hell if anything, it was Sam who should still be wracked with guilt over the death of their father. After all, his decision to go halfway across the country to attend Stanford is what started everything. But he’d long since taught himself that John and only John could be held accountable for what happened. The man had put too much on Dean’s shoulders and caused a rift between the two brothers. One that had lasted until the night that the police came knocking to tell them that the body of one John Eric Winchester had been identified.

They’d clung to each other after that. Sam had kept Dean away from the bottle and Dean assured Sam that he was without blame in all of it. What the young eighteen year old didn’t know was that it was his selfless, loyal-to-a-fault brother who'd shouldered the weight. It was a heavy load that he should have helped him carry. Instead, come fall of that year, he'd left, resulting in a three year estrangement. During his junior year of college, Sam had received a phone call from their uncle Bobby. There’d been a car accident; a bad one. Suddenly the years melted away and it felt like that night with the police all over again. He’d been on the fastest plane to Lawrence within the day. The next morning found him at Dean’s bedside, his brother in a comatose state with several injuries to his beaten body. _I suppose_ , he’d thought at the time, _this is what happens when you get t-boned by a pickup. Like father, like son._ He’d instantly felt ashamed at the thought.

All in all, Dean had been lucky to be alive. The simple truth filled Sam with more grief than he knew what to do with. He ended up taking it down to The Roadhouse. Ellen had been at her usual place behind the bar. Marching over to her, he’d pulled her to the side with such ferocity, it scared both of them. Tear tracks stained his face and his eyes were bloodshot. “How could you…” he choked, “keep serving him? You knew..that…you knew better…” He wobbled forward and she steadied him. The chatter at the bar top had decreased to a low hum. She glanced behind her before smiling at the few patrons eyeing them and leading Sam towards the storage room. When they were away from preying eyes she’d turned to him with squared shoulders and given him one of her soulful looks. “Sam,” her voice was low, a sympathetic warning, “ _you_ know better. I would never serve anyone, especially a Winchester, as much as Dean got his hands on. I don’t know where he lost his senses but it sure as hell wasn't in my place.” Her words were tough but they had wavered near the end, giving away the pain she felt for her surrogate sons.

 

Sam has stayed in Lawrence for almost three months while Dean recovered. When his body had fully healed, he promised that he would get help for his mind. Even though he griped his way through therapy, he learned a lot about himself. He started seeing a psychiatrist who helped him work through his anxiety and fear of abandonment, because as much as he missed Sammy, he couldn’t let the kid give up school for him.

It took a long time, but they worked through their problems, with the help of Dr. Edland, and became close again. Sam went back to California and Dean became kitchen manager of The Devil’s Trap Bar and Grill, where he learned everything he needed to know about the restaurant biz. Although he left on bad terms, that job made him discover his passion and had led him to where he was now; sitting across the kitchen table from a very worried Sam Winchester.

He swallowed and patted the hand grasping his with his free one. Taking a breath he fought his way through the statement. “There’s uh…some hot shot food critic. Wants to review Impala.” Sam’s face perked up at that. They hadn’t been reviewed except by internet customers and their word isn’t exactly reliable. He grinned, pushing his hair back in relief.

“Dean. That’s awesome! This could mean great things! Especially if it’s that Novak guy. Is it him? It is! Aw hell yeah! A rave from him is like getting tenure! We’d be set for years!” Sam continued talking a mile-a-minute until he noticed the still sullen expression on his brother’s face. “Hey,” he nudged him gently, “ what’s up, man?”

Dean bit his lip “It’s just,” he whispered, “what if I…what if I screw up again? What if I let everyone down just like last time? I can’t do that, Sammy, not again. That place is my life.” His green eyes were glistening. He hadn’t cried since the day his father died and he sure as hell wasn’t about to change that. With the sleeve of his white shirt, he rubbed at his eyes. Logic told him that everyone would still love him, whether he hit a home run with this or not. Still, the evil voice in the back of his head whispered terrible things to him. Sometimes it even sounded like _him_. He’d never told Sam about that though so he tried not to dwell on it.

“Dean,” Sam spoke carefully, “I’ll never be able to understand what you’ve been through, especially since you won't tell me.” A grim smile flitted across his face. “What I do know and understand is that you always took care of me. You take care of everyone. So just know, that if all this goes south, we’ll all be here to take care of you this time. ‘Kay?”

Dean nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. The words hadn’t fully calmed him but he’d let Sam think they did so he wouldn’t worry. He slipped on what he hoped was a reassuring smile and stood up.

 

“Okay, Sammy.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night of the critic's visit.  
> (a short chapter)

The kitchen of _Impala_ was a flurry of activity. All kinds of food prep were happening at once. Instructions were being shouted to and from different stations as well as a few colorful obscenities and good natured jabs. The Harvelle cousins were dressing the appetizer plates, Benny and his team of creole companions were making a roux, and Charlie was flirting with the new hostess, Dorothy.

Dean surveyed the kitchen whilst taking a container of marinated lamb chops out of the fridge. Eyeing the distracted redhead who should be basting quails, he set the tub down and snagged a raw peanut from Jo’s counter. He aimed carefully before tossing it halfway across the kitchen, hitting Charlie directly on her forehead. “Hey, your Highness! You got work to do!” he barked jokingly, referring to her LARPing character. Her eyes narrowed and she stuck her tongue out at him while Dorothy giggled and got closer to her. Well there’s a new development, he thought. He gave his friend a look that spoke to her expert level of game. “Can I live?” she fired back indignantly, whilst putting on a face that said, _It’s good to be queen_. Despite the sass, she whispered something to the hostess who pouted theatrically before leaving the kitchen to go back to the host stand. With that taken care of, he had plenty of time to finish his prepping and squeeze in a short panic attack before the doors opened and customers started flooding in.

 

Before he knew it, the dining room was packed. Looking out of the kitchen door’s window, he recognized some of his regulars. Sitting at his regularly reserved table in the corner was Rufus. He was an old friend of Bobby’s and had been coming in every Friday since their grand opening. Across the room, sitting at the bar, was Cole and his wife Loretta. They’d obviously gotten a nanny to watch their son for the night. The rest of the place was filled with new faces and a few regulars he hadn’t yet come to know by name. The hum of people chatting and clinking glasses against appetizer dishes usually calmed him. At the moment it made his stomach clench. He hasn't been this nervous since their first night. Nearly everything had gone wrong but they’d fought through it and came out okay. They'd do the same tonight.

 

Dean was about to turn around to give his team a pep talk when he saw a floppy mop of brown hair ease in the front door of the restaurant. He let out a breath he didn’t know he’d held in. Sam was here. Skipping behind him was Jess, all smiles. The sight of both of them helped him relax a bit. They made their way towards the kitchen and Dean opened the door to let them in. Once they were through the door Dean was pulled into a vice-like double hug. He snorted at the both of them but gripped them tightly, making Sam roll his eyes and Jess giggle. When they backed off he had to discipline himself not to go chasing the embrace.

“You got this, Dean,” Sam assured him, gripping his brother’s shoulder. “You’re not alone here and it’s all gonna be great, okay? You’ll see.” Jess nodded alongside her moose of a fiancé. Dean smiled. The two of them were like a united front with the sole purpose of taking some of the tension out of his shoulders. “So,” Sam exclaimed excitedly, “time to huddle up?”

 

“Oh shit,” Dean muttered, looking at his watch. “You’re right.” He turned from the couple to face the expanse of the kitchen. Everyone was double-checking their stations but mostly they were subtly waiting for him to bring them all together. He cleared his throat and clapped his hands together. “Alright, people! Listen up!” he managed to keep his voice strong and confident in spite of the crushing pressure he felt. “Today is no different than any other. Sure, we got a big time journalist coming, but all that means is that we continue to do everything that we’ve always done. What are our house words?” He caught Sam smirking out of the corner of his eye at the _Game of Thrones_ reference. Ever since Charlie had started bringing the show’s dvd sets to their monthly Staff Movie Night, they’d all been hooked and had agreed that House Impala should have its own motto. After much debate, they settled on the phrase that everyone was now happily shouting at him. “ _Kickass service from a kickass crew!_ ” Dean smiled at their enthusiasm. “You’re damn right! So if that’s not good enough for Mr. Kansas Star, then he can just kiss my ass!” The cheers he received bolstered his confidence and he felt ready to dive into the work, half believing the little speech he’d given. _Fake it ‘til you make it_. Those were Dean’s internal house words and he thought them over and over throughout the night as the orders came in.

There was never a slow moment. Plates flew out of the kitchen and everyone moved in harmony. At the end of the night, just before the doors closed for good, Sam assured him that the only comments he’d heard from customers were highly complimentary. Once all the customers were gone and cleanup finished, the whole staff gathered around the bar. Chuck poured drinks as everyone laughed and wound down. They could finally relax. All that was left to do now was wait for the paper on Monday morning.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introducing: Castiel

Castiel Milton did not feel very good. In fact, Castiel Milton felt like shit. Everything seemed to be falling apart. He stared at the overdue notice for his rent with bleary eyes. The mug of coffee he held in his hand wasn’t even putting a dent in his exhaustion. He knew that he should cut back on the caffeine but with his job he needed it. His coworkers would seldom see him without a thermos in his hand. It kept him going and was worth the occasional headache. At the moment he wasn’t thinking about the pros and cons of his addiction, though. Right now he was thinking about how he was going to afford to continue living in his nice apartment on his current salary. The only reason he had been able to move in here was the fact that his family was very fortunate in terms of financial stability. As the youngest son of Elijah Milton, he’d been the favorite; always docile and obedient. The most rebellious thing he’d ever done was changing his major back in college. That is until now.

Approximately four weeks ago, Castiel had come out to his family. Every month, they all gathered in his father’s house for an elegant family dinner. He’d been so sick of hiding such an important part of himself and, being the beloved son that he was, he’d been sure that they would accept him. He’d been wrong.

That night he drove home without a family. At least, without a grand majority of his family. Gabriel still sent him letters from whatever country he was in at the time. He hadn’t told his brother about what had happened though. The last thing he needed was to be a burden. The fact of the matter was, Castiel was cut off. He needed money and he needed it as soon as possible. His job meant everything to him but God help him, it did not pay the bills. Sure, he could just move into a more affordable place. That would be the logical thing to do. Except for the fact that any place within his price range would be so far from the office, the taxi fare would be astronomical. The car he drove before all this was in his father’s name. So, of course it was taken back.

 

Castiel took another sip of coffee and tapped his fingers on the counter. The pressure coming from the piece of paper in front of him was making him antsy. He glanced at his watch. Any minute now.

He just had to keep himself calm and try not to let the guilt that pooled in his gut make him take everything back. It was too late for that now and he needed this. His eyes trailed over his kitchen. Everything was pristine. All the appliances still looked brand new. One might think Castiel had never used his stove at all. And they’d be right. Although he had an excellent palate for good food, the only thing the man ever cooked for himself was Stouffer’s. In his defense, he always ate out and almost never had the opportunity to make himself a real meal at home. Which was a damn shame considering the quality of all the kitchen’s appliances.

 

As he was polishing off his mug, a loud knock on the front door jostled him enough that he almost inhaled the last of the contents. Setting it down, he straightened out his nice white button down shirt. The sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, something he only did when he was home and could relax. When he was positive he didn’t look unpresentable, he made his way to the door. His hand only shook a little when he reached for the knob. He took a breath and opened it.

Standing on the other side was a small brunette woman. He knew he’d seen her before. He was pretty sure her name was started with an “M”. The smirk on her face seemed to be a permanent part of her appearance. In her hand was a thick manila envelope. She twirled it in her fingers and tilted her head. “Hey there, Clarence,” she drawled. “Nice to see ya again.” Her eyes raked over his body and he felt a blush of embarrassment color his cheeks. This whole situation made him uncomfortable enough as it is. The last thing he needed was this person (Mandy?) treating him like a piece of meat.

“My name is Castiel,” his voice was rough. He tried to keep it from wavering. “not Clarence.”

“Oh I know that,” she smiled infuriatingly as she said this. “I just like Clarence better.” She flipped her dark curls and extended the arm that held the envelope out to him. “Alistair sends his thanks. He wants you to know that should you ever be in a tough place again, he’d have more work for you. He’s very…appreciative.” She paused before saying the word, almost like she was adding dramatic effect.

Her words made Castiel want to hurl. He reached for the envelope but as his fingers curled around it, she held on. “The name’s Meg, by they way,” she spoke huskily, as though that would endear him to her. “I could tell you didn’t really remember from when Alistair briefly introduced me.”

Castiel nodded.

“Yes, well, thank you…for…delivering this,” he spoke each syllable whilst trying to get her to release the envelope. She quirked an eyebrow at him but let go.

“Well, I hope I’ll see you around, Clarence,” she said before turning from him and walking down the hallway to the elevator.

Closing the door, Castiel sighed. The shame flooded through him and he slid down his door until he was sitting with his back against it. He opened the flap of the envelope and looked inside. He counted it all twice before throwing it across the hall and watching the money scatter. 10,000 dollars. That’s what his integrity was worth apparently. As he kneaded his eyes with the heels of his hands he recalled the last thing Meg had said to him. With a soft, broken voice he answered her.

 

“Don’t fucking count on it”


	6. Fallout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean's fallout after B.J. Novak's review comes out.
> 
> P.S. I am so sorry it took me this long to update the story!!! I had the worst case of writer's block and anxiety attacks from school stress was killing me! This chapter is short but it's going to work as a segue into he rest of the story.

 

One of the perks of owning your own restaurant is the flexible hours. Calling in sick with no penalty? Sleeping in? Showing up fifteen minutes late with Starbucks? These were all things that Dean did occasionally. Every once in awhile he believed he was owed a little break and with the amount of time he spent working, no one begrudged him these things. All they usually asked for was an Americano to-go and a blueberry scone. However, showing up a week late to work is something that would piss off even the most understanding of the staff.

 Dean hadn’t gone to work since the review of _Impala_ came out on Monday. It was now Saturday, one of the busiest days of the week and he was laying in bed watching Dr. Sexy MD on his laptop. The door was locked. After the first couple times of Sam barging in and telling him to get his shit together he had learned to take precautions. Of course, his not-so-little brother had threatened to kick the door in but Jess had intervened. She’d tried to get him out of his room as well but used more gentle tactics. He had about four hand written notes from Jess that she’d slid under the door. They all said pretty much the same thing. _This doesn’t define you. You’re still an amazing chef. He didn’t know what the hell he was talking about. That jerkoff wouldn’t know good food if it bit him in the ass._ That last one had been his favorite. But it still hadn’t gotten him to leave the sanctuary of his room.

His phone was ringing again. He really should just let the battery die already. Glancing at the small screen, Dean read the caller ID. _Charlie Bradbury calling_. He sighed and reached for the damn thing. There were probably close to 40 missed calls and if he didn’t answer at least one of them, everyone was going to start thinking he was dead. A few of his closest friends had stopped by the apartment to check on him but Sam and Jess were almost never home during the day and Dean sure as hell wasn’t going to get up to answer the door. He swiped the phone and pressed it to his ear only to wrench it away again.

“DEAN WINCHESTER, WHAT THE FUCK?”

The screech that emanated from the cell phone’s speaker made him cringe. Out of all the people who’d been trying to contact him, Charlie had called him the most by far. He supposed that he should have known that out of all the people trying to talk to him, she’d be most likely to do an impersonation of a banshee. Taking a deep breath to fortify his resolve, he once again pressed the phone to his ear.

“Heya, Charlie.”

The indignant scoff he heard on the other line alerted him to a chewing out of a lifetime in his very immediate future. “Heya? Heya?! You drop off the face of the earth for a WEEK and you answer the phone with a heya?! You are seriously begging for an ass kicking!” He didn’t say anything. When Charlie was like this, it was best to just let her get her jabs in before she forgave him. He listened as she called him a few choice names. After awhile she realized that he wasn’t going to argue with her and the insults trailed off. The line was quiet for a minute. Then he heard her soft huff of breath before she started speaking again.

 

“Look, Dean. I know that the past few days have been hard but everything’s fine. We’re all okay and the restaurant is still doing great. As per usual.”

 

He tried to believe what she was saying but all he could see was the potential backlash of the review. Sure, everything might be alright now, but what about a month from now? Or two? Who would want to eat somewhere where the appetizers were “inedible” and the steak was “little more than a large piece of beef jerky”? Would they ever come back from this? Would they all forgive him for letting them down? Charlie took his silence to be a sign of further brooding and chimed in again.

“I’m serious, Dean. Come back in. Everyone is really worried about you. It’s not healthy to lie in bed all day, stricken with ennui, watching Netflix.” She really hit the nail on the head sometimes.

 

“Charlie…” he began.

She waited for him to finish.

“It’s just…what Novak said…was he right? I don’t know what went wrong. I checked every plate that went out. Every plate...” Dean hated that his voice cracked.

 

“Of course he wasn’t right!” Charlie was practically yelling. “Whoever this guy is, Dean, he’s an asshole! You can’t just fuck with people’s livelihoods like he does. It’s shitty and wrong! I was there that night too and so were the rest of us. Everything that came out of that kitchen was culinary gold and he fucking knew it!” She huffed softly and Dean could tell she was fidgeting with her hair which always falls in her face when she gets worked up. His mouth quirked slightly imagining the sight.

Charlie was like the little sister he never had and her words actually managed to put a little more marrow in his backbone. Plus he figured that he was letting down his staff just sitting here like a sack of potatoes while they tried to deal with the aftershock. He sat up under his bedcovers and rubbed the grit out of his eyes.

“Alright, I’m sorry, Charlie,” he conceded.

“It’s fine, Dean,” she murmured. “We’re all just really worried about you.”

“I know, I know. Tell the crew I’ll be in soon. I just need another day”

“ _House Impala_ awaits your arrival, my lord!”

“Yeah, okay, nerd. I’ll see you later.”

“Ditto, Lord of the Nerds!”

Dean actually smiled as he pressed the End Call button. After he put the phone back down on his nightstand he surveyed his room carefully. It looked, and smelled, like shit. In his depressed stupor he’d basically neglected any and all sense of hygiene. His clothes were strewn everywhere and there were paper plates, crumbs, and empty water bottles scattered around different surfaces of furniture.

 

_H’okay. Time to take out the Trash._

**Author's Note:**

> I solemnly swear that I will finish this fic.


End file.
